Sharing the Pain
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: Greg’s not looking for someone to fix everything. He isn’t looking for someone to continue telling him he did the right thing, either. All he’s looking for is one moment of comfort in a harsh reality. Oneshot. Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort. Nick/Greg. Slash.


**Author's Note: **This is set at the end of season seven's _Fannysmackin'_. Exactly right after it. xD

Oneshot. Tragedy/Hurt/Comfort. Nick/Greg. Slash.

**Warning: **Contains spoilers for _Fannysmackin'_.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters mentioned.

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks to Amanda for proofreading, as usual.

**Summary:** Greg's not looking for someone to fix everything. He isn't looking for someone to continue telling him he did the right thing, either. All he's looking for is one moment of comfort in a harsh reality.

**Sharing the Pain**

It was turning out to be a balmy morning, and the air conditioning was turned up to the max in the hospital cafeteria. Off in the corner by the big bay window overlooking the courtyard, four adults sat chatting amicably. Only one of them was visibly injured, but all of them were nursing their own hurts.

"Well," Warrick said, slowly rising up from the white hospital table, "I should be getting home. I need a shower."

Sara nodded, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "I could go for a shower as well." She, too, got to her feet, and then knelt down beside Greg's chair. She put her hand on his shoulder, and a few tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she surveyed the damage inflicted by the mob. The bruises, the gashes, the cuts … the hurt that those kids had caused to her friend almost knocked the wind out of her. "Greg, I'll come by to see you soon, okay?"

Greg nodded, and he gently patted her on the shoulder, sighing.

"You'll be okay, G," Warrick told him, clapping him softly on the shoulder as well. The tall man turned his vibrant green eyes to the silent Texan. "You coming Nicky?"

"Oh, uh, no. I think I'll stay and talk a while longer with Greg," Nick replied, glancing quickly at the injured young man, but Greg's eyes were downcast.

"Okay Nicky. I'll talk to you later," Warrick said, starting to walk away.

"Bye Nick, bye Greg," Sara called over her shoulder, matching her stride with Warrick's.

"Aren't you tired?" Greg mumbled, his eyes straying across the empty Mexican food cartons before finding Nick's deep, soulful chestnut eyes.

"I'm not the one recovering," the Texan quipped back. "Aren't _you_ tired?"

"Maybe," Greg said, trying to stifle a yawn, but it didn't quite work.

"Greg, maybe you should go lie down. Like I said, you're still recovering. You need your rest."

"I … I don't want you to leave," the CSI Level One muttered quietly, crossing his arms tightly across his sore chest.

"I won't go, G. Not if you don't want me to," Nick whispered to the younger man, reaching out and lightly touching his arm. "But wouldn't you be more comfortable in your bed?"

"I don't want to fall asleep."

"But sleep's good for you, man."

"Not this kind of sleep," Greg retorted, his voice harsh, his lips trembling.

"What do you mean?" Nick asked, his eyes narrowing in concern. When Greg didn't answer, he leaned forwards. "Greg?"

"I—I don't sleep anymore. All I get are … are memories, if you can call them that. I'd refer to them as nightmares, but they plague me when I'm not even sleeping. Right as I'm closing my eyes, they come, and that's all I can think about when I'm asleep. I wake up, and I'm even more tired. It's as if I get no release from this … this absolute horror," Greg choked out, his uninjured hand clenching into a fist.

"Oh Greg," Nick sighed. The fear, the remorse, the unyielding sadness that was pressing down on Greg's shoulders was apparent in the younger man's voice. "I … I don't know what to say."

"I don't either," Greg admitted. He raised his eyes to Nick's, and Nick could see the life that was still thriving inside his friend. That gleam that wouldn't go out. That spark that wouldn't be extinguished.

"What can I do to help you?" Nick questioned him, the Texan's heart breaking.

"You know," Greg said, a curious expression showing on his swollen and discolored face, "you're the first person to ask that. Everyone else just says that they're glad I'm alive … that they're happy to see me up and about … that I made the right decision," he finished bitterly.

"Well, everyone _is _glad that you are alive, and that you aren't bedridden any longer. And Greg … you _did _do the right thing," Nick told him firmly.

"I—I don't even know if I did anymore …"

"Greg, you saved a life that night. Your own life was in danger, and you acted accordingly. You did nothing wrong."

Greg turned his head slightly away, gazing off into the distance. "Yeah, I guess Nicky, but … but sometimes I just wonder what would have happened if I hadn't done this. Would the police have arrived in time to save Stanley? Would I have been blamed for not acting? Would Demetrius James still be alive?"

"No one knows," Nick said gently. He took Greg's still clenched hand and softly ran his thumb over the bruised knuckles. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"What can you do to help me?"

"Yeah."

Greg turned to stare sorrowfully into Nick's dark eyes, and he could feel tears pooling around his lower lashes. He sniffled once as he tried to make his mouth stop quivering. "All I want is a hug."

This was the last straw for Nick. He broke down, bowing his head and letting the tears fall heavily onto the front of his sweater. Greg turned Nick's hand over in his own, stroking the palm soothingly. Neither one of them knew how long they sat like this, but after a fashion Nick looked up, his eyes still streaming.

"A hug can fix all this?" the Texan murmured, his voice thick.

Greg shook his head. "No, but it'd make me feel better."

Nick grinned weakly, and he stood up, tenderly pulling Greg to his feet. The Texan moved closer to the younger man, and he delicately put his arms around Greg's neck, his sobs soft in the injured man's ear.

Greg raised his arms slowly to go around Nick's comforting body, pulling the other man closer to him. He leaned his forehead against the Texan's almost violently short hair, his own tears falling softly from his eyes.

And there they stood—one man broken, and the other man healing. And at this moment, they both needed each other because they both shared the pain.


End file.
